My Kind of Earl Read online

  Chapter 6

  “Might I see it?” Jane asked, feeling a thrill sprint through her. “Birthmarks have always fascinated me. Neither myself nor my siblings have any extraordinary markings. In fact, we’re all quite plain.”

  He gave a snort of wry amusement, a smirk playing on his lips as he asked, “So, you want to have a look at all the places that aren’t pink, do you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Has it occurred to you that I’m merely inquisitive about everything?”

  “Oh, it’s occurred to me. And there’s nothing mere about your curiosity. You’ve got the lion’s share, to be sure.”

  Indignant, she sniffed and dabbed harder against the laceration along his jaw, earning a gratifying hiss. “Certain people prefer the advancement of knowledge. While others sell off their furniture in order to pay for illicit pleasures at a bordello.”

  He growled. “For the last time, I didn’t sell my furniture for a swive. I have money, damn it all. In fact, I own this bloody house.” His exclamation echoed inside the plaster walls. But then he stiffened, his eyes widening slightly for reasons beyond her understanding. “Just don’t tell Pickerington, if you can help it.”

  “Why shouldn’t you wish my cousin to know?”

  “Not just him. I don’t want anyone to know. Word gets out and before you know it, people start to plot, wanting to take what’s yours.”

  She cocked her head in inquiry. “You haven’t told anyone?”

  “No one but Reed Sterling. I had a room at his gaming hell for a while. Didn’t seem right to keep it after he married.”

  Oh, now she understood. Her mouth curved in a smile as the softer side of the scoundrel was beginning to unfold. “You must hold Mr. Sterling and his wife in high esteem if you wanted to shield them from your constant parade of prostitutes.”

  “There was never a parade of—” He broke off. “Look. If I’d wanted a woman in my private rooms, I’d never have gone to Moll’s in the first place.”

  She nodded sagely. “Perfectly understandable, especially when your life had taught you not to trust anyone. Which is the reason you haven’t hired anyone to look after your loose buttons.”

  “I can look after my own damnable buttons,” he grumbled under his breath.

  “Perhaps,” she said, humoring him. “Though, I must say, I’m honored to be privy to your secrets and to have earned your trust after such a brief and turbulent acquaintance. I cannot imagine that trust is something you give easily.”

  She could see a hard pulse beating in a rapid rhythm beneath the taut flesh of his throat. Then he raked a hand through his hair. But he must have forgotten about the cut on his shoulder, for he winced.

  Roughly, he jerked out of his coat and tossed it aside.

  “I don’t trust you,” he barked. “I don’t even know you. You’re just some reckless, peculiar debutante I rescued from a brothel.”

  “Correction—I rescued myself. Then I rescued you,” she said, already leaning in to examine the wound with the blot of the handkerchief and a sharp hiss from him. “Is this the arm of your birthmark?”

  Without waiting for his answer, she began to carefully peel apart the torn seams at the shoulder. He inched back, twisting at the waist, and the fabric slipped from her fingertips. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too bloody curious for your own good?”

  “All the time, I’m afraid.”

  His jaw hardened and he stared intently at her face, roving over every inch. “It would have turned out far different for you in that bawdy house if I hadn’t been there. Or if you hadn’t been wearing this . . .”

  Before she could react, his hand deftly stole around to the back of her head and untied the mask with a small tug.

  Her breath hitched on a gasp as the scrap of lace fell, unheeded, between them.

  Shocked, she stared at the triumphant gleam in his gaze, unblinking. Without the mask, the aura of mystery—which had likely been the sole reason men had fought over her in a brothel—was gone. Stripped bare, she was her ordinary self again.

  “Whyever did you do that?” she scolded, her tone accusatory and cross.

  “To see who you really are.”

  “That makes little sense. You already know my name. You even work with my cousin who has verified my identity.”

  “Are you always this logical?”

  She swallowed, trying not to reveal how exposed she felt. “I strive to be, which is more than I can say for you. One minute I’m inquiring about your birthmark, and the next—” She stopped as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “You took off the mask to distract me from asking about your birthmark. Surely, you’re not afraid of what I might think of it.”

  “Afraid,” he scoffed.

  Then, as if she’d issued a challenge to prove his manhood, he reached across his chest to the diagonal tear on his shoulder. Her hand splayed out to stop him, but it was too late. He tore the sleeve clean off with a rip that cut through the air.

  “I could have mended that for you.”

  He arched a brow. “Mended the pink dappled shirt of a stranger you’ll never see again?”

  “Point taken,” she offered with a slight shrug.

  Now they were both exposed and, in her opinion, on equal footing.

  Her attention shifted to his arm. Or, more precisely, his bare, undeniably masculine arm. His skin bore a slightly olive tint, and beneath the swarthy surface, he appeared to be comprised of a knight’s armor, with the clear delineation of the thick deltoid shoulder cap over the hard, woven bands of biceps and triceps.

  Seeing him this way caused a peculiar reaction to her physiology. Her head felt giddy. Her skin prickled with heat. Her fingertips tingled with the desire to touch the dusting of dark hair that grew in a downward arc along his forearm. Stranger still, saliva pooled beneath her tongue. Her sense of smell seemed heightened, his scent invading her nostrils in an absolute olfactory domination.

  “What’s this?” He clucked his tongue, smirking at her. “Jane, you’ve proven yourself a modern, scientific woman. Surely the sight of a man’s arm shouldn’t make you blush, considering where you were tonight.”

  “I’m not blushing, I assure you,” she said, even while suffused with evidence to the contrary.

  A low laugh escaped him. “Must be the heat of the fire.”

  She nodded in tentative agreement, her teeth biting down on the cushion of her bottom lip. What made her reaction more embarrassing was the fact that she hadn’t even given his birthmark a passing glance yet.

  Not wanting to appear the lecher, she pursed her lips studiously. “Would it be too much of an imposition if I were to . . . possibly . . . touch you there? Merely to further my own understanding of the nevus, of course.”

  A slow rakish grin curled his lips and his deep voice curled her toes. “You can touch me anywhere you like, professor.”

  Jane immediately thought of a new chapter for the book. A rather scandalous chapter. And, for a long while after that, she completely forgot she wasn’t wearing a mask.

  * * *

  Raven kept a watchful eye on Jane as she leaned in, still not knowing what to make of this debutante.

  He thought he was prepared for the first tentative brush of her fingertips, that soft silken press of her flesh against his. But he wasn’t. Gooseflesh rippled down his arm in a prickling wave, raising each hair in a way that begged to be smoothed by the stroke of her delicate hand.

  And he certainly wasn’t ready for her unreserved “Oh” of wonderment. The soft exclamation drifted across his skin and sent a surge of blood gushing through every vein in a molten flood.

  Then her lips began to move in that soundless murmur once more. Seeing it from such a close proximity tempted him far more than he’d thought possible, considering how much trouble she’d caused him in such a short amount of time.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked, his voice hoarse and gravelly from this unfathomable desire.

  The spell caster’s concentr
ation was still diverted and she issued an absent, “Hmm?”

  “It’s like you’re talking to yourself right now, but you’re not speaking aloud.”

  “I’m simply jotting down a few notes in my mind,” she whispered.

  “And what are you saying?”

  Her hand splayed over him, curving around his bicep, her examination growing bolder. “That it’s quite remarkable. I never imagined your arm would feel so different from my own. It’s as if your musculature is formed of those thickly braided ropes that keep massive ships moored. The surface is as taut and smooth as an overfilled wineskin, and an enticing heat emanates from your flesh. Do you feel feverish?”

  “No,” he lied. “Well, not unless you’re about to order me to lie down. But, be warned, I plan to take you with me.”

  “And this birthmark of yours,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d spoken, “is inexplicably detailed. I’ve seen other birthmarks and normally one has to employ imagination to see shape and form. But not with this. Would you like to hear something quite odd, Raven?”

  “You don’t realize it, but you almost always say something odd.”

  “Prepare yourself then, for I recognize that mark.”

  He grinned at the absurdity. “Is this how you flirt with all the men you examine?”

  “You misunderstand,” she said, turning her head to meet his gaze. “I have an uncommonly detailed memory. A mnemonic sketchbook, of sorts. Once an image is inside my mind, it’s nearly impossible to remove. And I’ve seen that bird before, exactly as it appears on your arm.”

  There was enough gravity in her expression to cause a shiver to roll down his spine once again. Every muscle on his skeleton contracted and tightened. And he decided at once that he didn’t want to be under anyone’s quizzing glass. Not even hers.

  She went back to tracing the outline, and at the sensation of her warm breath coasting over his skin, he felt a restless need to stop this conversation by any means necessary.

  So he settled his hands on her hips.

  Jane issued a faint squeak of surprise, but didn’t bolt. She merely watched him with those deep blue eyes, as if deciphering and calculating his movements like a player counting cards in a deck.

  “It’s only fair. You’re examining me, after all,” he explained baldly, ready for her to back away.

  He wondered how many thoughts were turning in her mind as she looked from his face to his hands. Was she gauging his intent? Absorbing the feel of his fingers as they flexed in appreciation over the unexpected roundness of her hips, and skimmed upward to span the narrow channel of her waist?

  “You’re a surprisingly curvy little creature,” he murmured as his splayed hands inched higher to the base of her rib cage. “And you’re not wearing a corset.”

  “They needlessly . . . restrict respiration,” she said on a shallow breath.

  “Wouldn’t want that,” he agreed absently, enjoying that spears of whalebone weren’t hindering his discovery of the supple warmth just a layer or two away.

  He imagined peeling the garments slowly down her body, exposing patches of creamy ivory and blushing pink and dark sable. And he imagined how easy it would be for him to lift her out of her pooled skirts, and for her to straddle him . . .

  Those visions pulsed thickly in his blood, making him forget the reason he’d touched her in the first place. Making him forget that he wasn’t interested in debutantes.

  Now, every heartbeat was like a heavy thump of a drum, the rhythm rousing the more primitive side of his nature. The part that was driven by the baser desires of want and need and claim.

  Usually he kept this inner beast locked tightly away, but there was something about Jane that made it reach through the bars and rattle the cage.

  Distracted, his thumb began tracing the shallow rim of her navel through the violet muslin. The innocent touch caused a tremor to roll through her and into him. The faintest puff of air left her and the sound told him she was just as surprised as he.

  “I wonder where Pickerington has gotten to,” he said as his gaze took a meandering climb over the rise and fall of the firm hillocks of her breasts, to a pair of full, parted lips that had tempted him from the very first moment.

  The dark pink tip of her tongue darted out to wet them and he could easily imagine plundering the warm recesses of her mouth. Tasting the sweet release of her inhibitions.

  “Considering Duncan’s appetite, he’s likely found the larder,” she answered with her usual logic, thinking nothing of how honesty might work against her in this circumstance.

  “Then he could be gone for some time yet.”

  Certainly long enough for Raven to seduce her, if he chose to. And the idea of tutoring her to the ways of pleasure was surprisingly appealing.

  As if she’d read his mind, she gave him an alert glance. He held it and smiled in invitation.

  Oh, the things I could show you, Jane Pickerington.

  But she wasn’t like the women he bedded. Prostitutes understood passion and primal appetites. They knew that swiving was nothing more than a transaction from beginning to end—a give and take to satisfy both parties.

  Jane was only a naive debutante on a foolish errand to study scoundrels for her book.

  Even so, he knew he could tempt her. There was enough to encourage him in the way her hands rested on his shoulders, her fingers curling over his muscles in artless exploration. And there was curiosity in her eyes, too, her pupils expanding like spills of ink on midnight-blue silk bedlinens.

  She studied his features intently, her gaze roving from his brow to his mouth to his eyes, and to his mouth again, lingering.

  A few kisses and caresses in the right places and he could have her underneath him, gasping his name, before she even considered the insurmountable regret that would follow from losing her virginity to a man she would never see again.

  Raven had the sense of mind to know that he should be shocked by his thoughts. And by the simmering temptation to put action in the place of idea.

  “I believe you’re either teasing or underestimating me again,” she said with a calm that belied the fast pulse bumping the underside of her bare throat.

  He wanted to put his mouth to that flawless skin and soothe that tender throbbing place with his tongue. “Am I?”

  “If you like, I could demonstrate how a young woman with seven younger brothers has learned precisely where a man is most vulnerable.”

  Taking him off guard, she suddenly shifted her stance to press her knee against his groin. Hard.

  On a sharp inhale, he inched back on the bed and out of the direct path of danger, releasing her. The inner beast shrank away from the bars of the cage.

  Raven shook his head to clear it. He should have seen that coming. “If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t planning to seduce you.”

  She glared at him on a huff. Then she moved to the washstand and began returning her jars and flacons into the confines of her red reticule with tiny, agitated pings and clinks.

  “Worry not, I won’t call out for my cousin. I am fully aware that a man who prefers the favors of worldly women would never find me desirable.”

  I’m just as stunned as you are . . . he thought but kept silent.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he found it thoroughly perfumed with lavender. This would surely haunt his thoughts for hours.

  Feeling the need to put this behind him, he bent to swipe his coat up from the floor.

  “Here is the salve I mentioned,” she said, leaving a small gallipot on the ledge. “And I will likely recall where I have seen that mark on your arm by the end of the day. I’ll send word.”

  He expelled an exhausted breath and slipped the left sleeve over his shoulder, clenching his jaw against the discomfort. “Don’t bother. There’s nothing I need to know.”

  Those wispy brows furrowed again. “There’s always something to learn.”

  Taking hold of the reticule, he dropped in the remaini
ng phials with a clatter, cinched it closed, and handed it to her. “Not everyone is like you, Jane. Some of us are satisfied with our lives just as they are. In fact, some of us don’t want anything to change. And you’ve already cost me enough this night.”

  He punctuated his statement by draping the cloak over her shoulders, then prodded her toward the door with a little shove at the small of her back.

  “But when I remember, and I will remember—”

  “Jane has a brilliant memory,” Pickerington interrupted, lumbering into the room with the chamberstick in one hand, the water pitcher in the other, and crumbs littering the front of his coat.

  “Perfect timing. You were just leaving,” Raven said, striding forward to take the jug in a grip so tense he thought he’d crush the curved glazed handle. “Found the buns in the larder, I see.”

  Pickerington spoke over the hefty bite he was masticating. “Well, Jane did say two sweets—”

  “Tout suite, Duncan,” she clarified, then shook her head as her cousin began licking his fingers one by one. “Oh, never mind.”

  “I only ate the stale ones to get them out of your way, Raven. Left all the fresh ones.” Pickerington’s hearty chuckle sent a gust of pungent, liquored breath into the room.

  Raven’s eyes stung from the fumes as he set the pitcher down.

  “I’d say you’re more than half-sprung, as well. I hope you left some brandy for me. In the meantime, best keep you away from candles or else we all risk going up in flames. So, off you go.” Without delay, he began steering the big ox into the other room.

  Then he went back to prod Jane along. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my old skin. Thank you for the paste. I’ll manage the rest on my own.”

  He was surprised, albeit relieved, that his guests went down the stairs and out to the pavement without any further comment. And, more importantly, no probing questions from Jane.

  The mark he bore was so thoroughly enmeshed with the nightmares of his youth that he could scarcely look at it without brutal recollection.